I was awakened by the full weight of Paffuto landing on me in bed.


    I yelled and flailed, but my talents on the piste did not extend to bedbound fisticuffs. I succeeded only in landing a single blanket-dampened thump on his shoulder before he simply rolled off of his own accord.


    “You strano!” he yelled jovially. His voice made my head hurt. “What on earth possessed you?”


    “Explain yourself or get out,” I growled. Even my own voice hurt my head.


    “Good thing Lady Contarini mistook your idiocy for charming abandon.”


    “What?”


    “Lady Teresa Contarini!” He bent over to smirk directly in my face. “For shame, Leo. I at least remember the names of the ladies whose skirts I’ve become acquainted with.”


    Lady Hawk—a Contarini. I put my head in my hands. My deportment tutor would immolate on the spot if he ever discovered his pupil had not only disregarded his most sacred of edicts, but done so with a Contarini. Ruined. I was ruined. All of Renella’s hard work for naught.


    “To hear her tell the story, you’re a free spirit. I think you’re mad as a March hare.”


    The phrasing sent a chill down my spine. I took my head from my hands. “Did she say—did we—” I couldn’t go on. My face was on fire. Paffuto laughed at my expression. “Oh, don’t worry about that, loverboy. She’s got a reputation. Otto knew what he was about, bringing that little sauce-pigeon to your plate. You’re not going to wind up skewered on a brother’s epée.”


    I blinked. “Then what—”


    “The fountain!” he yelled, making my skull ache. I closed my eyes. “You had yourself a little birdbath, you dunce!”


    Another chill down my spine. “I was drunk,” I mumbled. Then I rallied. “And it wasn’t a bath; I didn’t get in. I was thirsty! I splashed my face and took a few sips!”


    “Oh, like drinking out of a fountain where birds shit is any better than—”


    “Didn’t you actually fall in to a fountain once?” Barti asked calmly. He was standing at my bedroom door with a blanket rucked around his shoulders, hair tousled and slightly purple with spore-dust. I probably looked similar.


    Paffuto snorted derisively, but he could not hide the color that crept into his cheeks. “Sure,” he scoffed, “accidentally. That’s different. And it wasn’t in front of a princess.”


    Barti shrugged. “It was in front of a lot of other people, though.”


    Paffuto’s color heightened. “I don’t appreciate your tone.”


    Barti shrugged again, unruffled.


    Paffuto glared for a moment longer, then forced a laugh. “The two of you. Honestly. A couple of nuns.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I’ll wait till you’re less hungover and have got your trousers on before expecting you to appreciate humor next time.” And then he left, muttering about touchy bastards.


    I put my head back in my hands. “I’m putting a lock on my door.”


    ??


    Paffuto might have been the only one who insisted on referring to me as Birdbath from that day forward, but he was not the only one who heard of my dalliance with Lady Contarini. Paffuto’s hyperbole aside—she was not technically a princess—she was nevertheless a member of the uppermost echelon of nobility. And they gossipped with the same fervor as the inhabitants of a small mining principality; it was just that they did so over fine china in palazzos, rather than the well in the commons.


    I knew I was in trouble when Francesca wrote to me about it. She had just only just returned from Espania, and already she had heard the news. She, of course, was congratulatory. Downright gleeful, despite the fact that it somewhat complicated her own situation. She still had no concrete plan for how to extricate herself from marriage in a way that not would ruin her life in other ways—nuns were effectively disinherited just by virtue of their profession, and they certainly didn’t get to go to bullfights or take up fencing—and was consequently stalling for time with the baseline “waiting for Leo” ruse. She thought, and I agreed, that her best course of action would be to find a male counterpart in a similar predicament. Alas, the only one she knew of was Lord Cousteau, whom she found to be intolerably melancholic and a Frenchman besides. The search continued.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    I read Francesca’s six-page letter in a rising panic. If she knew, everyone knew. And everyone at home knew what I was. Dots would be connected. At this very moment, in a salon or tea-shop or drawing room, some matron was raising her eyebrows, teacup halfway to her pursed lips, and saying, “She went off unchaperoned with… whom?” In the billiards room of a club, or out in the bracken on a hunt, some gentleman was frowning, brow wrinkled, and saying, “... with deRye’s boy? But isn’t he…?”


    And then I would be both expelled and skewered on some Contarini brother’s blade, in no particular order.


    My response was immediate and twofold: I enrolled myself in the University’s fencing classes for the upcoming term, and I wrote an angry letter to Renella.


    For someone who prided herself on social acuity, she had really bungled things on the educational front. Twice now, she had sent me off to school utterly unprepared: the first time, not even knowing what I was, let alone why people might take issue with it, and the second time, without any knowledge that, because of it, I wasn’t even allowed to be there. I could easily have mentioned my heritage in passing, or simply taken my shirt off in the common room of my own suite. It was pure dumb luck I hadn’t, in those first few weeks before Paffuto waved The Queensman in our faces. Was I supposed to have just intuited this on my own? Surely Renella should know by now that I was nearly as clueless as my father in that regard.


    I wondered if my father even knew I’d been sent off to a school where I was not welcome.


    My answer came in the form of an uncharacteristically brief reply from Renella on the first day of the new term:


    <blockquote>


    If you had been paying attention to the genealogical studies your deportment tutor had set you, you would have noted that your own record indicates nothing more than that you were born out of wedlock to a commoner, now deceased, and legitimized shortly thereafter. Furthermore, if you had been paying attention to the application materials for Queen’s University, you would have noted that you yourself signed a statement affirming you were “pure of blood.” It is no longer my duty to note such things for you; you are responsible for the logistical underpinnings of your own life.


    If you wish to pursue a grievance for not having been informed of your heritage prior to beginning primary school, I suggest you take it up with your father.


    - R


    P.S. You are circumspect, resourceful, and very bright. Your father and I have every confidence that you will excel both socially and academically at Queen’s University, despite your circumstances.


    </blockquote>


    Deeply chagrined, I threw the letter into the fire, picked up my epée, and made my way to fencing class.


    The gymnasium where the university’s fencing classes were held could not have been more different than the dark and gloomy armory in which I had learned. It was very modern. An entire wall was devoted to a row of mullioned doors that opened onto the snowy quadrangle, filling the room with light even in the middle of winter. Four pistes had been marked out on the floor in black ribbon. I walked over and toed one admiringly, taking in deep breaths of the smell of fresh linseed oil.


    I took stock of the other students. Most of them were taller than myself, unsurprisingly, and none were shorter. It was going to be more like fighting Master Fiore than Francesca. A couple of them were heavyset, though. Heavyset or not, I remained hopeful that I would be the quickest.


    And that none of them were Contarinis.


    “Birdbath!”


    I closed my eyes and stifled a groan. That’s right: I’d seen an epée in Paffuto’s room, listing against an umbrella in the corner. He had the right body type for it: long and lean. And I hadn’t practiced in months.


    This could be a disaster.


    “Paffuto,” I replied evenly.


    He thumped my back aggressively. “Fancy seeing you with a blade in your hand, little man! First time?” He eyed my epée appraisingly. “Awfully nice blade for a first-timer.”


    I almost rose to the bait, but quickly thought better of it. Now was not the time to antagonize him into a duel. Plenty of time for that later. “It was a gift,” I said.


    I could see the tension in his frame ease into his normal arrogant pliance. “Well, I’m sure you’ll do it credit,” he said patronizingly, and punctuated it with a second whack between my shoulderblades before ambling off to bother somebody else.


    I managed to prevent myself from being paired with him for any sparring, and held back even so. I was out of practice. My opponent that day was my hight, and affable, and not at all put out that he lost every bout with me; I’d let him get some touches in while I focused on my form, and observed Paffuto from across the room. I was troubled to discover that he was quite good.


    Paffuto stayed after class to shower at the gymnasium. I, of course, would not be doing that. Many students didn’t; it was unremarkable for me to gather my things and just leave, sweaty as I was. I ruminated on the troubling discovery of Paffuto’s talent all the way back to the suite. Why was I so certain I was going to wind up dueling with Paffuto? We would probably cross blades in class, of course, at one point or another, but my sense of urgency felt more dire than that.


    I needed to know that I could beat him with a naked blade.


    I was shivering slightly from chilled sweat when I finally reached the suite, and instantly set about running a nice hot bath for myself. I was going to be sore tomorrow.


    I was just climbing in when the door opened behind me.


    “Oh!” gasped Barti.


    I dropped into the bath like I’d been shot and spun around, sending water cascading over the rim and sloshing to the floor. Barti just stood there, hand still on the doorknob, face white.


    I had been so lost in my own thoughts, I had forgotten to lock the door.


    He had seen everything.


    I stared at him while my stomach ate my heart.


    His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he regained his voice. “S-sorry!” he stuttered, and backed out. The door slammed.


    I immediately leaped from the bath, sending more water sluicing to the tile, and locked the door. And then, not knowing what else to do, I simply climbed back into the bathtub and sat there.


    I sat there until the water went cold.